Time
by orbythesea
Summary: Alicia, one day, one week, one month, and one year after 5x15.


**1. One Day**

The rational part of her knows that it will stop. She knows that one day she will wake up and an hour will go by before she remembers, then two, then three. She knows that, one day, she'll close her eyes to sleep and it will occur to her that she hasn't thought about him all day. A day will go by, then two. A week will never come.

The rational part of her knows all this, and she tries to cling to it, to the idea that in the future, the grief will fade to a dull, constant ache, that the ache will go away, coming back only in moments of brief sadness that she can smile through.

The rational part of her can think about Will and her father and the way the dead are never truly gone and she doesn't know whether that's a blessing or a curse.

Right now, though, right now she's not rational. Right now she is gutted to the core, body and heart and mind broken with the pain of it, the shock and the regret and the _guilt_, the constant, nagging _what ifs_ that leave her pressing her hands against her chest to keep her heart from leaking out of it.

Right now, she is hitting the snooze button on her alarm for the second time, already dreading the moment when her children tiptoe into her room to check on her, faces painted dark with worry and concern. Right now, she regrets declining Peter's offer to take them last night. She closes her eyes and tells herself to stop, to get up, to brush her hair, to smile so her kids won't have to see how much she wants them gone.

She does, too. She puts her feet on the ground and pads into the kitchen, opens the cabinets to find something to make for breakfast. He always loved breakfast, no matter the time of day. She gained ten pounds in 1L keeping up with the joy he took in biscuits and gravy from the diner near school. She has to lean against the countertop for support.

"Mom?" Grace's voice is soft, tentative, as if she's afraid that the vibrations of words traveling through the air might break her.

"How do you feel about french toast?" Alicia asks, forcing the words from her throat.

"We're going to grab something on the way to school," Grace says, still soft. "We decided last night."

There are a hundred things that Alicia thinks that she should say in response, a hundred different ways of protesting, a hundred assurances she should offer. She can't make the words come, though, so she just nods, dully, arms still braced against the counter. "Good," she says, dully, and her own voice sounds distant and foreign, sounds choked. "I mean— "

Grace's arms are around her, then, holding her close and Alicia hates that life has made her children so strong. "It's going to be okay, Mom," Grace whispers.

Alicia feels the tears pricking at her eyes and she curses, under her breath, trying to hold them back. Her throat _aches_. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry." She doesn't know what she's apologizing for, doesn't know who she's apologizing _to_.

If Grace needs clarification, she doesn't ask for it, just keeps her arms wrapped around Alicia from behind, rests her chin against Alicia's shoulder blade.

Alicia doesn't know if it's a minute or an hour before Zach is there, too, prying her hand off the counter to hold in his. "We can stay home, if you want," he offers.

Alicia's mind screams _no_ and _please_ and _yes_ and she grips his hand as tightly as she can, wills herself to make a joke, to make light of everything. "Anything to get out of AP Calculus, right?"

She thinks that the words must have come out more bitter than joking because for a moment, a wave of hurt washes over Zach's face and _God_ he looks so much like his father when she's hurt him. "No, I— "

"I'm kidding, Sweetie," she whispers. _I think I've lost my touch._ "I'm going to work," she adds, decisive. It's a lie, but they don't need to know that. "It's _fine_," she adds, willing herself not to cry when she meets Zach's eyes. "So I'd better take a shower."

In the shower, she shaves too close, cuts her shin with the razor and her blood is pale, diluted by the spray, and for a moment, she's amazed that she's still alive enough to bleed at all. In the next moment, she's not sure that she wants to be. She sinks down to sit on the floor of the shower because she doesn't trust her legs to keep her upright. She can still see the dark red staining his white shirt, his suit, his tie—

The rational part of her mind knows that one day those memories will fade.

She stays on the floor of the shower, sobbing, until the water runs cold.

**2. One Week**

She got used to the way eyes followed her, back in the days after the scandal. After a while, she even learned to stop seeing the pity, the fascination, the curiosity. On her first day back at work, she summons up that forgotten part of herself to ignore the way the eyes follow her now.

"You ready?" Cary asks her, sinking into the chair across from her desk. "If you need another week, we can— "

"No." Her voice is hard, harsh, and she wants to apologize or explain but he's waving her apologies away before she can get the words out. She is grateful, so grateful.

"Everything's been continued," he says. "Not even Judge Parks pushed back on that. So you've got some time, if you need it."

Alicia nods. "I'm okay, Cary," she says, and she thinks that she even manages to sound believable. "I just— " She tilts her head towards the stack of messages. "I need to get back to work."

Cary nods, still watching, still _concerned_ and she wishes that she had some words of reassurance for him but they won't come, won't leave her throat.

"Well," he says, finally. "Whatever you need…"

It is her turn to nod, and it occurs to her how much she's come to _like_ him, how much he's grown. She remembers the way he used to talk about Peter like it was nothing, like it didn't hurt, being associated with him. Then again, maybe he meant to hurt her, to throw her. She used to think that he did, but now she wonders if it was youth and ignorance, if he was simply tone deaf.

If he was tone deaf then, he's not now, and he lets his offer of help hang, unanswered, before getting up. "Oh," he adds, voice low. "Carey Zepps and some of the others have been making moves on his clients." Alicia's so very, very grateful that he doesn't say the name. "If you wanted to weigh in on whether that's something we want to be doing… "

She takes a deep breath. "Whatever you think is best," she says, finally. She can't do this, can't have this conversation. Of all things, this is a decision she should be a part of, but she knows how the meeting will go, can already hear the squabbling back and forth, the way each client can be reduced to annual billings and she _should_ weigh in, but somehow the idea of sitting there as they reduce Will's clients to facts and figures, numbers— His clients were his life, and she doesn't know how to separate that, doesn't know how to hear that Quintus is worth six million a year and and their general counsel never liked Diane.

Cary hesitates for a moment, but he doesn't push. "Like I said," he says instead. "Whatever you need." He smiles before he turns away.

After the fourth time she hears someone start to speak then cut himself off when they notice her presence, she needs to get out. She grabs her laptop and makes a hasty exit, shooting Cary a text about getting coffee as she waits for the elevator.

The barista is smiling and pleasant, far too cheery and for a moment, Alicia wants to scream at him that no, she doesn't want to have a nice day, she won't _enjoy_ her latte, that there is no reason to smile. _He doesn't know_, she realizes, and it's like a punch to the gut, realizing that there are people out there still living their lives as if nothing has changed, as if it doesn't matter that Will is dead, that she'll never see his smile again.

The rational part of her mind knows that in a city of almost three million people, at best, some of them read about the shooting in the paper or saw the news reports. She knows that they probably shook their heads and mumbled something about inadequate security measures or _that's-what-you-get-when-you-defend-murderers_ and didn't give it a second thought. Will's death was probably the subject of water cooler gossip, clicking tongues and shaking heads and then nothing.

She remembers this feeling from when her father died, remembers feeling like she was walking through a world that was forever, irrevocably _different_, dark and empty and meaningless. The rational part of her knows that it will pass.

The thing is, she doesn't want it to pass. She doesn't want to reduce Will to someone that she used to know, doesn't want to let the world get away with thinking of his death as some anecdote to discuss in the same sentence as March Madness or that missing Malaysian jet. She doesn't want to let the world believe, even for a second, that Will got what was coming to him.

_In Defense of the Defense Attorney_, she types. She didn't mean to. She meant to begin a short and plain jurisdictional statement, the same one she's typed a hundred times. _The District Court has subject matter jurisdiction over the case pursuant to 28 U.S.C. Section 1331 and…._

She slams her laptop closed, frustrated, and texts Cary. _I'm working from home,_ she writes. _Call if you need me._

He won't call, and she's grateful for that knowledge.

**3. One Month**

The first time she steps back into Criminal Court, she can't stop her hands from shaking. She's been passing off most of her criminal cases to the other partners, to Cary, and if anyone has noticed, they don't say anything. Desirée Porter, though, she can't pass off, but sitting at the defense table, she's not entirely sure why. _They're prosecuting her for stabbing her rapist,_ she reminds herself. _There's nothing right or just about this._

And that's the thing, really, the central problem with the justice system. There is no justice.

"Mrs. Florrick." Matan Brody taps her on the shoulder and she jumps, startled. "Sorry," he adds.

"It's fine," she lies. "I'm fine."

Matan has faced her enough to know that she's lying, but he lets it go. "I just wanted to say…"

"Don't," she says, cutting him off. "Please don't." She doesn't want to hear his apology, his _sympathy_. She doesn't want to have to smile and say _thank you_, as if a kind word can make up for the fact that his office is responsible for Will—

Matan nods and slinks back to his table. She closes her eyes and thinks about the morning's headline. _SA Under Fire as Questions Linger About Courthouse Shooting_. She didn't read the article, but she knows what it says, heard Cary and Carey talking about it on her way past the conference room this morning. Jeffery Grant didn't kill Dani Littlejohn and she doesn't know if it makes it better or worse, knowing that.

Cary's reaction has been anger, swift and vicious and she almost feels bad for any lawyer he's faced in the past month. She heard about the way he blew up at Matan last week and she wonders if he expects her to do the same. She doesn't.

The courtroom is full of ghosts and she moves through voir dire by instinct, and she feels as if she's guided by muscle memory. In the end, she likes the jury she gets, and that's something, she thinks. That's what matters. They recess until tomorrow and after her client leaves, Matan approaches her again. "Can you get her to take a plea?" he asks.

"The complaining witness raped her," she says, matter-of-factly. "You really think she's going to plead to— "

"And two weeks later, a week _after_ we filed charges, she tracked him down and stabbed him," Matan shoots back.

_After the judge let him out on a recognizance release,_ she thinks. _After the system broke down._ "What are you offering?" she asks, and she can hear the weariness in her voice. She has never wanted to get out of court as much as she does right now.

"Simple assault," Matan says. "Community service, a fine, and time served. Down from aggravated battery and six years, that's one hell of a– "

"I'll talk to her," she says, softly. "You must really hate our jury."

Matan smiles in that overly solicitous way he has and she feels sick inside, feels her hands start to shake and she doesn't really know why.

"Is this your version of a sympathy discount?" she asks him, after a moment. The words sound distant, bitter and foreign and she regrets them as soon as they're out.

"Something like that," he admits. "Or maybe I don't like seeing so many women on that jury."

Matan has never been nice, has never been _kind_, and she doesn't know which one he's being now, doesn't know which one he's being or _why_. Ultimately, she realizes, she doesn't really care.

It's only after she's called her client and sat down in her car that her hands begin to shake. _You used him,_ the voice in her head says, angry and critical. _He's dead and you_ used _him_. She rests her forehead against her steering wheel and takes a deep breath. _I didn't use him,_ she thinks, forces herself to think. _I loved him._

The tears come quick and hard.

The rational part of her knows that he wouldn't mind being used, not this time, not this way. The rational part of her knows that when your client is facing prison, you use whatever you have to keep them out, do whatever you have to do to get them off. Will taught her that, and the rational part of her brain knows that it doesn't matter how uncomfortable it feels, you do it anyway.

The thing is, there's nothing rational about grieving.

**4. One Year**

It still hits her, sometimes. It comes out of the blue, hard, like a punch to the gut, enough to make her want to double over in pain. She doesn't. It will pass. She knows this now in a way she didn't before, in a way that she _couldn't_ before.

Diane is watching her across the conference table, quirks an eyebrow at her as if to ask if she's okay. Alicia shakes her head, just slightly, tries to shake the pain away. _Fine,_ she mouths over the table, but she knows Diane isn't buying it.

"I sneaks up on me too, sometimes," she says, softly, sidling up next to her.

Alicia hates that she has become so transparent. "It's not that, it's— " she shakes her head. "I'm fine," she adds. "But thanks."

The thing is, she is fine, most of the time. She's had plenty of time to get to fine and there's no reason that it should still feel like yesterday. Most of the time, it doesn't. Most of the time, it's just a dull ache underlying her mood the way Amber used to stay with her even after she'd moved on. She's not happy, not good, not okay, but she's surviving. She's fine. Of course, the problem isn't the most of the time, because Alicia spent her entire life learning to carry her pain with her head held high. The problem is—

"No," Diane says, simply. "You're not. Not always. Not now."

Alicia hesitates, feels her legs shaking as she walks, but there are some things she cannot admit to, cannot let herself admit to. She is a rational actor, and _this_— This isn't rational. "Diane," she says, voice low. "I'm fine."

"One year on Monday," Diane says, and Alicia wants to scream because she's just not going to let up, is she? "Why don't you take a long weekend, go visit Zach at school or— "

"No." The word comes out quickly, unbidden, harsh and breathless and for one brief, horrifying moment Alicia thinks that she might collapse there in the hallway. "_No_," she says again.

"No," Diane agrees. "Of course." She hesitates for a moment, and Alicia is grateful, is ready to make her exit when she adds, "Have you been to see him, since he started school?"

Alicia blinks. "Zach?" She hasn't. She hasn't because when she moved him into McCarthy Hall, she had to excuse herself to cry. She hasn't because when he asked her to show him where she used to live, where she used to hang out, back in law school, she almost threw up. She hasn't because she remembers telling Will when Zach applied to Georgetown, remembers the way he grinned so broadly and said, _smart kid. He got that from you, right?_ "No," she admits. "I— "

"You should go visit him," Diane says. "It'll be good for you."

That night she sits at her computer and stares at the screen for half an hour before finally booking a flight. "Don't worry," she tells Zach. "I'll stay in a hotel. I won't cramp your style. I'm coming for me."

Zach must hear something in her voice, because he doesn't object, doesn't say that no college freshman wants his mom popping in for a visit without any kind of warning or notice. Doesn't say that he has a life, and friends, doesn't beg her not to embarrass him. "Just text me your flight information," is what he does say. "I'll pick you up."

On Monday, Zach skips his two o'clock English Comp class, and she delivers the obligatory scolding, but her heart's not really in it.

"Where did you used to hang out?" he asks her.

"Well, the law school's a separate campus," she points out. "So it's not like my old haunts would be convenient for you."

"Yeah, but I still want to know," he says. "And since I'll be interning on the Hill this summer… "

Alicia nods. "Irish Times," she says. "But you're not old enough to get in there yet and don't you dare try." She smiles at the face he makes. "And Red River, sometimes, but they were gone when I was here for work a few years ago. The Mall, of course. I used to jog there, and in the spring we would spread out picnic blankets and study on the grass until the sun went down."

"You and Will?" Zach asks, and her heart drops into her stomach a bit when he says it.

"Yes," she says. She forces a smile onto her face, swallows the lump in her throat. "Other friends, too," she adds. "But mostly Will."

"It's been a year," he says, softly. "Right? When you said you were coming, I started thinking about it, and then I did a search and— "

"It's been a year." She closes her eyes. "Also," she adds, deflecting. "There was this little diner near the law school. It wasn't great, but they were open all night and the coffee was always fresh."

Zach cocks his head to the side, then grins. "The one on C with the sign that just says 'Diner?' They've got the best gravy in DC."

Alicia blinks. "They're still there?" she asks. "That's— "

"Come on," Zach says. "Let's go."

They walk in together, and she feels her chest start to open up at the sight of the booth where she and Will spent so many hours pouring over casebooks and outlines and supplements. Zach's grip on her hand is tight and she is so grateful for him, so grateful that she's not alone.

"We can leave, if it's too much," he offers.

She shakes her head. "No," she says. "No, I— I'm good."

"You're not, really," Zach counters. "But you will be."

Alicia nods and squeezes his hand. _Yes_, she thinks. _I will be_. For the first time since Eli handed her the phone last year, she actually believes it.


End file.
